


how it happens

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Fisherman Dean, Insecurity, M/M, Magic, Scars, True Love's Kiss, Wizard Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"How - to break," Dean grits out. "Curse."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Somewhere between Castiel's mind and his mouth, his words fragment into - "How?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean's chest heaves. "Kiss," he says. "Me. You."</em>
</p><p> <em>Castiel stops. "Oh."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	how it happens

The moon is still high in the sky when Castiel bursts through the door, sending it rattling on its hinges. He can taste spit in his mouth. Pulling down the wrapper from his face, he inhales. His cheek stings mutedly.

"Thank the gods!" Sam says, and rushes to meet him. His hair's falling down in front of his eyes. It casts deep shadows, almost reaching the hollows of his cheeks. He looks young, somehow. And tired. "I didn't know how long the message would take to send, and I couldn't leave - "

"How is he?" Castiel says.

"Not good." Sam's hands card through his locks. As he stretches out, his tunic rises up, revealing just a hint of his bare stomach. It's a little too small for him, nowadays; it used to fit snugly, but not this snugly.

Sam opens his mouth, as if to say more; however, Castiel's already moving forwards, brushing past him. There is no time to be wasted - no precious moments to be lost. Behind him, there's a movement; a slight shuffling.

"Cas, wait." Castiel stops. Sam comes to a halt a few feet away. "This is - he's not - how you remember. How he was. Before. He looks - "

"Ugly?" The word escapes bitterly. Sam flinches. Castiel sighs. "I apologise. I did not mean - "

"He doesn't think that, Cas," Sam says. "You know that. Don't you?"

Castiel sighs. His hand has moved to his cheek of its own accord; he runs his fingers down it. "Perhaps," he says.

Sam's eyes widen. "Please, hear - " 

But it's too late, because Castiel's already ducking through the doorway, into the gloom of the room beyond.

The first thing that hits him is the smell.

It's pungent; like rotting fish, or meat. It's similar to the dockyards, when they leave the produce out for too long - essentially, all the time. Dean likes to go down there - likes to mingle with his fellow fishermen, even after working hours are over. Castiel, himself, can't pretend to enjoy it. There are too many impressive men, with their strong arms and hands, pushing and crowding.

When Dean is there, though, it's manageable; the stench of packed bodies (pressed close together, smothering him) is blocked by apples, and oil, and honey. And if he leans into Dean's touch, as he guides him onwards - well, that's nobody's business but his own, is it?

Now, Castiel can't breathe.

It's all over him, filling him; and he takes a step backwards, half-retreating, hand flying to his mouth - and there, all of a sudden, it is.

The thing's crouched on the floor, hunched over itself, shoulders raised - at least, Castiel assumes they're its shoulders. It's hard to tell, in the dim light, where the shadows end and the thing begins; where its gnarled limbs touches the ground, and where the hollows of its torso rise upwards.

It truly is a phantom; a monstrous phantom, turned away from him, staring at the dirt. Castiel can only stare, heartbeat in his ears - frozen to the spot.

Vaguely, he's aware of breath, on the back of his neck - and of Sam's tremulous voice: "Dean, Cas is here."

From the ground, the animal pauses; and then it growls, low and deep, in the back of its throat - and through the rumbling, Castiel can make out words, rolling and slurring together, thick and heavy and dead.

"No...no." A shake of the head; and: "Don't...gonna make him..."

Castiel knows that voice; knows it better than he knows his own, almost. He could trace every cadence of it, on paper - form every syllable into lines and colours, sketching out scenery from the slightest sounds. He knows that voice. He knows it.

"Dean?"

The creature growls, again - low, and dark, and threatening. On the back of Castiel's neck, hairs prickle.

Slowly, Castiel begins to edge forward - hands outstretched, feeling his way through the dark. He can make out faints outlines of tables, and chairs. This is where they sat drinking; this is where they played cards, in front of the last embers of the fire; this is where Dean posed, the first time Castiel sketched him: his head tipped back, grinning at the flimsy ceiling.

"Dean," Castiel repeats, picking through the rush of his thoughts, "I'm here to help you."

"No."

The noise brings him up short; makes him falter, in his progress. At the entrance to the room, he hears Sam's breath catch. There's such a rawness, in it - a pure, yearning pain, that seems to blossom, consuming the empty spaces. Castiel cannot move for it.

"Dean," he tries again, half-choking, "I will not hurt you. I swear it. I promise you, I shall do all in my power to cure you of..." Castiel trails off - because there is no name for the affliction, no seeming purpose or cause. What is it called, when men become beasts?

"Cas."

His name is spoken quietly; and it's so achingly familiar that Castiel surges closer, until he's only a foot away. He can see the gnarls covering ashen skin, and the lines and the rivulets, forming patterns on otherwise untainted flesh. Some of them ooze puss.

Castiel resists the urge to gag - or vomit, or simply run from this place, and leave it behind - but something keeps him there, locked in the orbit of a changed man, whose head, even now, is turned away from him - as though that could hide what he has become.

"I promise you, I will help." Castiel lowers himself to the ground, crouching - reaches out, with one quivering hand, desperately trying to maintain a level cadence. "I trust you. I know that you will not harm me. I have faith."

"Cas," Dean says, again, and he does not sound like himself. He does not sound like anything Castiel has heard before.

"Fetch my brother, Sam. No doubt he is responsible for this."

Sam blinks. "Gabriel? But - why - ?"

"To teach us a lesson." Castiel shakes his head. "Although what manner of twisted game this is I cannot fathom."

And there - there - is the anger. It sits low in his chest, in the space between his ribs. It beats harsh and hollow.

"There is no poultice I can form to restore him," Castiel continues. "It is beyond my powers. That you are aware of."

"But surely - there must be something - "

"There is _nothing_. Now go. _Hurry_."

Sam's breath hitches. When he speaks, though - when he speaks, his voice is level. "I will," he says. "I'll be as quick as I can manage."

Dean does not reply. 

As the puttering sounds of Sam's shoes retreat, Castiel does not look up. He does not look around. He keeps his eyes fixed on the side of Dean's skull.

There are stale traces of him, there. The golden tufts of hair that sprout from beside his ears are present, as is the firm curve of his jaw. But his ears are harsh, and pointed; his hands are hooked; his nose and mouth have elongated, forming something closer to a snout than lips.

In truth, he is hideous. Horrifying.

Castiel reaches up a hand, and runs it along the edge of Dean's cheek. Dean starts, his shoulders stiffening.

"Does my touch still repulse you?" Castiel says. "I thought we had moved past that."

"You - you don't - didn't - "

Castiel sighs. "I was trying to be humorous," he says, "although I'll admit, it was in poor taste."

Something low scratches in Dean's throat. "Yes," he says.

Castiel smiles. His hand drops down, resting on the floor between them. "Come, now," he says. "I mean you no harm. Won't you look at me?"

A shake of the head. The bushy bristles on his shoulders writhe. "No."

"Alright," Castiel says. "If you insist. But it will make conversation somewhat more difficult."

They are quiet, for a while. The silence is punctuated by naught more than Dean's long, laborious breaths. Castiel traces a pattern in the dust with his fingertip. It swirls.

"I don't think you're - " Dean stops. Pauses. "Ugly."

Castiel frowns. "You heard Sam's words?"

"Yes." There is a slight catch to Dean's tones. Castiel ignores it - it will do them no good.

"Well," he murmurs, keeping his voice low, "I don't think any princes will be coming to sweep me off my feet."

"No. You - " Yet another hesitation. This time, it is followed by silence. Dean appears to be hissing.

"I cannot read your mind. I'm working on the ability, but it's not quite up to scratch."

"Can't - " Scratching, scraping. Huff of air. "Know. You're - not - "

"Good enough?" Castiel smiles. "Thank you for the compliment."

This is where Dean would smile, if he could. His teeth would draw back, and he'd slap Castiel's arm, and the corners of his eyes would crinkle, and he'd make some joke about - whatever he was thinking.

"Cas," Dean says.

"Yes?"

Dean draws in a breath. "Was - Gabriel."

Castiel closes his eyes. When he opens them, he still isn't calm. "I will challenge him," he says. "This time, he has gone too far."

"No - Cas - can't - " Dean pants. Castiel grips his shoulder. "Said - something."

"Something? What?" Castiel leans closer. Dean's mane is inches away from his face. "Did he say - ?"

"How - to break," Dean grits out. "Curse."

Somewhere between Castiel's mind and his mouth, his words fragment into - "How?"

Dean's chest heaves. "Kiss," he says. "Me. You."

Castiel stops. "Oh."

"Yes."

"Alright," Castiel says. "Would you prefer me not to look, or - ?"

In Dean's broad back, the muscles tighten. "You will?"

"Of course," Castiel says. "I would do anything to help you, Dean. I - "

He stops himself just in time.

"You?"

"We are not of the same clay," is what Castiel says. What he means is this: you are a fisherman, and I am barely a medic. You have a future, and I have a past. You have the sky in your hands, and I have nothing. "My eyes are shut."

"Let me," Dean says. "Hold."

Castiel nods. "Come here," he says. "Be swift. Your brother will soon return."

And that is not the reason why, but it is not in Dean's interests to learn the truth. To him, Castiel will always be a brother, at best - at worst, merely the boy with the scar, resting beside the boats. 

Crinkling. Shifting. And Dean must be facing him - must be close. Must be breathing on his lips. The boy with the golden hair, and the man with the golden smile.

This is how it happens: Dean leans forward, and takes Castiel's face in his hands. He pauses, for a moment, and then they kiss. Just like that. In an instant. 

Castiel pictures it differently. This is how it happens: Dean leans forward. They are standing on the edge of the ocean, and Dean's arms are around him. The waves are lapping against the shore. It's spring time. The air is clear. 

Dean is smiling at him, and he's saying something inconsequential, and laughing. And then Castiel is lurching closer, and they're joining together. Meshing. 

This is how it happens: their lips meet. Dean's are warm. Castiel's chest lurches. His heart is thudding out of his control - out of instinct, preparation to run. And then Dean is sitting back, and there is stillness, and Castiel is in love, and nothing at all has changed.

This is how it happens: the world shifts, and there is movement. The light flashes against Castiel's retinas. They burst in sparks. He staggers backwards, shielding his face with his hands. Everything is a flash of _gold_.

This is how it happens: Castiel opens his eyes, and there is Dean. He's wearing strips of his shirt, and his trousers are torn. He's shivering. There is a sheen of sweat on his skin. His head's dipped down, and his eyes are squeezed shut.

"Dean," Castiel says - and he has to close his mouth, for fear of saying something he does not mean, or worse, something he does.

Dean's head snaps up. He holds Castiel's eyes. "Did it - ?"

"It's you," Castiel says. "Your voice. Your face. _You_."

Dean glances down at his hands. He turns them over and over, gazing in wide-eyed, slack-jawed disbelief. He looks back up, and he does not seem to _understand_. 

"It worked," he whispers. "It - you - Gabriel, your brother, he said - "

Dean goes to his feet, in one fluid movement. Castiel scrambles upwards. He's still grinning. He feels as light as air. Starting closer, he clasps one of Dean's hands in both of his own. Dean stills. He stares at the point of contact. He isn't smiling.

"You're - you - " Dean shakes his head. "No. No, you - you can't - Cas. Cas."

"Dean," Castiel says, "you have been saved. What could possibly be wrong?"

"Cas," Dean says, slowly. "I need you to tell me something."

Castiel nods. "Anything. Anything that is in my power."

Dean looks at him, as beautiful as he has ever been, as beautiful as he will always be - not because of his eyes, or his hair, but because of his _brightness_ \- and says, "Are you in love with me?"

And Castiel's stomach is sent spiralling, in a fumbling frenzy of _deny, deny, deny_. _Conceal the truth. Pretend._

"Yes," Castiel says, and, "I don't suppose there's any point in denying it. Gabriel's jokes always did have stings in the tail."

Dean doesn't appear to hear. His face has turned white. "You ain't," he says. "Alright?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, because there doesn't seem to be anything else. All he can feel is a sick sense of nausea, and the ball of resignation building in the pit of his chest. Emptiness. "I'll see myself out. Give Sam my regards."

Dean's hand shoots out, and clasps onto his wrist. "Cas," he says. "You serious?"

"Of course. When am I ever not?" Dean smirks, and Castiel feels the familiar butterflies. "You don't have to pity me. I'm quite capable of controlling my emotions."

"So what are you gonna do? Never see us again?"

Castiel shrugs, shortly. His lungs are strung tight, strangled by netting. "I will do what I must," he says, "in order to see you happy. And then I will go."

"Well, that's gonna take you a while, pal."

Castiel sighs. He dips his head. "I'm not expecting you to be happy with me," he says. "I would never ask that of you."

"You'd never - what - you're - "

"I will go," Castiel says, "I must beg my leave, rather, I - I am busy, have been busy, of late - "

"With what? Starin' outta the window?"

"Yes," Castiel says. "Naturally. Please move away from the door."

"No."

"Dean, I must ask you to move away from the door."

Dean folds his arms over his chest, expression forming into a mask of stubbornness. "No," he says, again.

Castiel narrows his eyes.

From behind him, there's a muffled noise, followed by - "Dean! You're alright! I was so worried, I couldn't find Gabriel anywhere, and - "

"Of course you couldn't," Dean mutters, "he'll have high-tailed outta here by now. We won't have his hide to tan 'til springtime."

Castiel can't restrain a chuckle. Dean turns to look at him.

"My apologies," Castiel says, "for sending you out on your errand, Sam. There was no need. I was able to aid your brother sufficiently."

"Aid! You turned him back!" Squeezing through the crack in the door, Sam shoves Dean to one side, and grins. "You're a hero! They should write songs 'bout you!"

Castiel shakes his head. He grabs his wrapper, and moves to place it back across his scar.

The hand on his own stops him.

"Dean?" Sam says. "What - uh - "

"Cas don't have anything to hide here," Dean says. "Do you, Cas?"

Castiel swallows. His cheeks are flushing. It's an uncouth habit, but one he can't seem to find a way to kick. Dean steps closer, turning his hand over. His fingers press against Castiel's wrist.

"No," Castiel gasps out.

"You're lyin'," Dean says. "Ain't he lyin', Sammy?"

"I'm gonna step outside," Sam says, "and when you two are done, I'll come back in. Does that sound fair?"

"Don't go," Castiel says. "Please."

"You know what Gabriel told me could break the curse?" Castiel shakes his head. Dean's tongue flickers out across his lips. "True love."

Castiel jerks away, clutching his palm back against him. "You mock me! You mock my affection!"

Dean shakes his head, eyes widening. "Cas, I would never - "

"I did not consider you so cruel, and yet you have done it!" The anger is building, now - up and up and up, spilling out of Castiel's throat. "I thought you would at least be kind!"

Dean steps forward, and tugs him in close. Castiel struggles.

"Ssh," Dean says, "ssh, I got you, I - "

"I am not yours, I will never be yours, do not pretend that I am - "

Dean grabs his chin, and holds his head up. Castiel glowers. His head is swimming. He's hot. His eyes are clouded in a fine film of mist.

This is how it happens: Dean kisses him. Once. Hard. On the lips. He tastes of salt, and fish, and morning breath, and his lips are chapped, and they're firm, and Castiel's stomach is fizzing.

This is how it happens: Castiel kisses him back, for one blinding, dizzying moment.

And then Dean steps away, and holds Castiel's face in his hands, and says _don't you see, I love -_

This is how it happens: Castiel kisses him again. Once. Hard. On the lips. He tastes of salt, and fish, and morning breath, and his lips are chapped, and they're firm, and Castiel's stomach is fizzing.

Their foreheads rest together. Castiel exhales, and Dean does, too - and they smile, and they smile, and they smile.

"Alright," Castiel says, and Dean beams, and says,

 _yes_.

 

 

 

 

 

This is how it happens: outside the door, Sam covers his mouth his palm. He's smiling.

"You still owe me, kiddo," Gabriel says, and Sam takes his hand down.

"I know," Sam says. "I'm working on it."


End file.
